


New Beginnings

by Lilythiell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feelings, Grief/Mourning, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilythiell/pseuds/Lilythiell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has never been able to keep a girlfriend. </p><p> </p><p>This work is unbetaed and un Brit-picked. If anyone wants me to correct things, feel free to post it in comments :)<br/>Also, if anyone feels this fic warrants other tags, do feel free to tell me :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has never been able to keep a girlfriend.

First there was Sarah, who could have had a very good shot at a relationship with John, had she not been kidnapped alongside him, and nearly killed, because of those Chinese smugglers who thought John was Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

They didn't even get to second base, she admitted she was a tad put out by her nearly dying. But they remained close friends -she offered him a place to stay when things got too heated with Sherlock.

Of course, John and Sherlock were not hooking up. They were not romantically connected. Yet they would have died for one another. Sherlock had.

 

After Sarah, came two other women who didn't quite register in John's mind -and certainly not in Sherlock's. These women always had one complaint about their relationship with John. And that complaint was Sherlock Holmes.

John was in these relationships out of habit, out of fear to do something unusual. He never quite put his heart into it.

 

He could have left Sherlock -they were only flatmates, after all. And he still had mates in London who could have helped him out -only temporarily, just the time for him to find a place to live.

But John felt like he had no real purpose alone. And that was one of the reasons his flatshare with Sherlock was beneficial. After all, Sherlock, with all his madness, always had something going on : he despised inactivity -boredom for him was an ordeal. Most of the time though, something happened with Sherlock -be it a murder case, an experiment or a music composition.

All of them involved John, giving him a role to play : assistant, cleaner of mess, relay-to-communicate-with-others, audience and blogger -all of these activities needed to be shared with the world.

And because John was always doing something with Sherlock, he barely had time to be with other people, and certainly not girlfriends. And that is taking into account that Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, who occupies a 'minor position in the British government' worries constantly about Sherlock -with reason, obviously, the man being a high functioning sociopath, as he liked to label himself. And assumes that John will always be there for his little brother. With reason, too.

 

So, whenever John had a girlfriend and that it coincided with one of Sherlock's brutal mood swings, John left his girlfriend 'for a few moments' without thinking much about it. He felt a sense of responsibility towards the man; after all he _had_ made his life interesting. And understandably every single one of John's girlfriends hated it. Being implicitly asked to compete with Sherlock Holmes was too much. They faced their own lack of personality. And no one likes to be deemed not interesting enough.

To John, even if there were no sexual perks involved with Sherlock -and John was adamantly against the very idea. He was _not gay._ And Sherlock would say 'Dull. This is all just transport'- there was no doubt in his mind that no one could ever begin to compare with the man's fascinating personality.

 

John's girlfriends always thought there had to be something sexual going on between the two flatmates, because if their relationship with John was not working it couldn't possibly be their fault. There had to be something else.

 

When Sherlock was still around, before he took his fall, it was impossible for John to keep a girlfriend.

After Sherlock had died, he could not even think of having someone in his life -if only not to stay alone. That would remind him too much how really gone from his life Sherlock was.

For some two years, John just went through the motions, he had lost that purpose that Sherlock had given him, and didn't feel like going out of these dull days.

If Sherlock was not there, what was the point?

 

 

Two years after Sherlock took his fall, John met a woman. It was a complete chance meeting.

John was at Tesco, to buy teabags, tea biscuits and milk. He had adopted Sherlock's diet, consisting on eating when he felt hungry, and therefore drinking an awful lot of tea, accompanied with biscuits because he had lost all desire to cook -cooking had become such a chore, he didn't bother doing that any more.

She was standing in his way, seemingly lost in deciding whether lemon flavoured tea would be a better choice than bergamot.

 

'Excuse me', he said as he passed around her with his left arm held out so she'd move enough for him to actually see what he was aiming at.

He then saw that the tea he always took was out of stock and, as he was out of stock himself -he had not kept close enough track of how many teabags there were left- he needed to refill.

'Darn it' he muttered under his breath.

'I'm sorry, were you saying something?' the lady asked.

'No, nothing interesting. I'm out of tea. And so are they, apparently' he explained, showing the empty track where a small yellow paper saying 'out of stock' was lain beneath the tag giving and the price of the item.

'Oh, so you're the citrus kind, aren't you? I myself can't decide between bergamot and lemon. I want to try something a bit out of the ordinary, but I'm not sure I could shake off that bergamot craving easily, even if...' she trailed off, seeing the lost look on his face. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean on chatting you up over tea. I mean...'

'Actually', he interrupted 'I would very much like you to chat me up over some tea. Any idea where we could go?' John asked, a warm smile on his face.

She beamed when she heard John pretty much asking her out, she honestly thought he would not look at her twice, something in his stance saying he wasn't interested in going out with people. She had to answer his question negatively, she wasn't much of a tea drinker in another place than her own home.

'I'm afraid don't have the faintest', she answered with something akin to regret in her voice -she didn't want to sound like she didn't want to sound like she didn't want to go out, that would probably make her even less interesting that she already was.

'Well then, we should probably go looking for a tearoom', he said with a smile still on his face.

 

_'How have I become so chatty all of a sudden? Sure, it could be nice to actually go out with someone instead of brooding all day long, but...am I up for that? Well she_ _ did _ _ kind of implicitly ask me to ask her out, that should mean I still got it. Somehow...' _

 

With that, they put their grocery bags down and exited Tesco, their mind on the thrilling task of finding a decent tearoom -nearby, obviously.

John couldn't bring himself to leave Baker Street, even if in the first days after Sherlock's Fall he had -much to Greg's insistence- stayed away from the flat.

That is why why John and the woman he just met went looking for a tearoom in the Marylebone district.

 

Comfortably, they walked together, leaving a few inches of space between their bodies as they did -so obvious it was that they were going out on a date with each other.

_ 'Me. Going on a date. It feels so weird.'  _ thought John.  _ 'Sherlock won't m-'  _ he stopped in his tracks as he thought this. Mary -the woman whom he had met in Tesco and was currently on a date with- had seen he'd zoned out while she was talking about how she didn't like texting. She came to a stop, too, a concerned look on her face. 

'John, are you all right?' she asked him, the concern evident in her voice. 'You look like you've just seen a ghost', she added, trying to alleviate the tenseness of the situation by adding what she thought of as a bit of humour.

John was still not speaking. His stare was blank, and he thought that it was actually the first time he'd thought about him as...well. In another way than a hero. And just when this particular thought came into his mind, he could hear him saying, with the exact cold word from long ago 'Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them'.

'...erm...no.' he managed. 'no, I'm ...fine, actually', and he realised that he was. 'Just thought about one' he mumbled under his breath as he resumed walking, tilting his head up high with a smile on his face.

'Oh. Good, then' Mary replied, suddenly relieved that their date could continue -or start, more like.

John was quite a charming man, with what seemed like a bright intellect, and it would have been a terrible mistake to miss out on that.

 

All the while, a cold wind had gotten up, and the light was starting to become obscure because clouds were hiding the sun, announcing that the weather would soon deteriorate into something...wetter. Sure enough, as soon as John and Mary entered a tearoom which looked well enough to them, the rain started to fall.

It was tiny droplets of cold water that quickly transformed into a showering rains as John and Mary sat in the dark empty chairs at the back of the room.

'Oh my God! Look at that rain, John!' Mary exclaimed 'We were lucky to run into this very tearoom just before it started, weren't we?'

'Erm, yes, we were' he answered. 'That Amanzi tearoom was at the right place at the right time. It is a nice place to share time over a cuppa.', he added with a smile, all the while thinking of that time he had tea at Buckingham Palace, with a very naked friend sat next to him in nothing but a bedsheet -before his brother forced him to put his trousers on.

'Yes, it  is a good place. Warm and cosy', he completed, wondering if he should enjoy the memory he was reliving less, and focus on the moment.

 

They ordered their tea. Mary, seeing nothing on the menu that would suit her at the moment just went for a traditional Earl Grey -with a cup of milk on the side, just in case she felt like she needed things to be smoothed over. In that case, what better beverage than tea to do just that?

She was after all really apprehensive about this casual-dating-over-a-cuppa then, even if she was the one who initiated it.

As for John, he was feeling adventurous again. He was attracted to someone...! That hadn't happened since...too long. So he went for the cinnamon flavoured black tea. Cinnamon to show that he was open to a lot of ideas, black tea to imply that he was not ready to hop in the next car and have a shag in its back seat.

Tea protected him. And there he was, thinking of the last words he said to his face...'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.'

_ 'Damn you, Sherlock. I can't even think about bloody tea without having you pop into my head, you prick' _ he thought in an unconscious endearing tone.

 

Mary and John's tea was served, they chatted idly, discussing unimportant matters. All the while it was still raining outside, but inside the tearoom was warm and they felt like in a cocoon, sitting in comfy chairs, with a good cup of tea and really good company.

They shared laughs, stories of no consequence and laughed some more. Mary didn't recognize John as the Robin to the Hatman-so-called-fraud he shared a flat with, and even if Sherlock had been...no, was...no  is an important (if not the most important) part of John's life, he didn't feel like talking about him, lest he ended up over praising the man like he used to with his previous girlfriends. That, or scaring Mary off by how shattered with grief Sherlock had left him.

Or maybe even realising that John was not over Sherlock and whatever-it-was-that-was-between-the-both-of-them.

Time passed by rather fast, Mary and John had a lovely time together and agreed to meet up soon after that.

 

When he came back to 221B Baker Street, hurrying from the station before ending up completely drenched from the rain that was still pouring outside (albeit slightly less abundantly than when he and Mary had entered Amanzi Tea), John got up the stairs and heaved up a sigh as he opened the door to his flatmate-less flat.

He settled in his armchair, Sherlock's still undisturbed, just like he left it before.

John sighed once more, disbelieving as to finally thinking he might be able to move on. Sort of. He still felt conflicted between moving on and abandoning the memory of his...best friend. Sure, he  knew that he could not simply forget Sherlock and the time they had together, but just the thought of moving out of the flat was rather unsettling -he was used to his lonely humdrum routine, after all. 

He was  not going to complain for that chance on making progress over the messy state his life and his heart were in. But when it dawned on him that he was given that chance, he just...felt numb. He wasn't prepared for it. At all. 

At a loss on what to do, John stood up from his armchair and, as always when in doubt, he put the kettle on and made himself some... no . He  _ was  _ going to make himself some help-thinking tea, when he realised he  _ didn't _ _ have the chance of buying any _ at Tesco. Angry at his own forgetfulness, he shouted at the air, and reached for the gun that he supposed was in the top kitchen drawer, near the stove, with every intention of giving the wall a piece of irritated and frustrated mind.

The gun was not there, however, having suddenly disappeared while he was out.

He was sure the gun was there before he left the flat in the morning. He dismissed the thought coming to him that he may well be starting to be losing his mind. He might just be out of it today, suspecting that this surge-of-emotions-different-from-his-usual-emptiness had something to do with it.

Slumping his shoulders in defeat, he let another sigh escape his lips, and resolved to go back to Tesco, taking the precaution of a hat against the still rainy weather. He was  _ not _ going to use an umbrella. Umbrellas reminded him of Mycroft, the one man, beside Moriarty, he held responsible for Sherlock's death.

The man had set Moriarty loose with every bit of information on Sherlock's life he had traded -to no avail, Moriarty being seemingly of no more use to the British Intelligence. Moriarty was not as much responsible for Sherlock's fall than Mycroft, as Moriarty was previously held in highly secured quarters of the British Intelligence.

In sort, John never again took any umbrella to shield himself against the rain, especially if it was no more than a drizzle.

When it was pouring rain, however, he either stayed indoors or, if going out couldn't be helped, he wore a hat -that very same hat Sherlock had admonished him to wear when they left the crime scene he titled on his blog as 'The Navel Treatment'.

John put his coat back on, donned his hat, took his keys and left the flat to get to Tesco where he hoped he could buy his much needed tea. One  _ always _ need tea.

 

John's evening was uneventful. He could have waited for a text from Mary -they had exchanged numbers, obviously- but she repeatedly said that she disliked texts. She was old-school : when she had something to say, she would pick up her phone and actually call the person she wanted to talk to. Huge change from Sherlock's constant texting.

And there he was  _ again _ thinking about his best friend. Funny how so many domestic details could make him think about the curly dark haired man-child he had lived with for two years. 

_ 'No! I am  _ _ done _ _ moping over you! For God's sake Sherlock, it's been two years now! Seriously, Sherlock, leave me the bloody hell ALONE!' _

He had said that last sentence out loud, shouted like he was used to when Sherlock was being a prat, but his voice cracked at the realisation of what he was doing. No, not  _ only _ talking to thin air, he was actually talking to someone who was dead, gone from his life. 

He felt actually better doing so. He thought doing so might help him move on. But still...

Help him it did. He had no romantic feelings towards anyone any more, yet he felt he could develop some for Mary, and was very keen on not doing anything wrong which, he surmised, would be very unlikely with Sherlock...not around. So he took up his phone and called her. John was feeling indestructible and without any fear of being shot down, he asked Mary to meet up again the day after.

He suggested they take a walk in Regent's Park if the weather was smooth enough. Otherwise they'd go to Amanzi Tea for the afternoon. Yes, John was feeling very confident about this. He went to bed, eager for the sun to rise and to meet again with Mary. His sleep was, for once, restful.

 

As for Mary, she was thrilled when she noticed that John was actually interested in her. He would not have called her otherwise.

She didn't think he would text her, she had been quite clear that it was a habit she disliked, because she thought it was a conversation blocker. Oh, texts were easy, that much was true, but she didn't want to succumb to her very human laziness. And that is why she almost never texted anyone.

Having John calling her back that soon was a really, really charming surprise, and she could not help the smile on her face as she read the header of the caller. Why would she, anyway?

The conversation that ensued, though brief, had her in a most eager mood for the time to pass faster. Yet, she was too excited to do her part of the deal to help time move faster : she could not sleep before 2.30am.

She kept tossing and turning in her bed, thinking of the events that had yet to come in her head, and giving them a slight push to make them suit her fantasy.

 


	2. Preparation for Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me when you feel something's off -grammatically or otherwise =)

 

_**John** _

 

The following morning, John woke up, stretched, put the kettle on and prepared himself some tea, took a shower and dressed himself according to the weather. It was a mild, sunny Saturday morning at the end of September, when the weather was particularly unpredictable, mostly because of the remnants summer just left. He chose a grey shirt, over which he wore a jumper -it  _ was _ still morning, after all- and blue linen trousers.

Unlike every other morning, John was actually happy for the day ahead. He felt like he had awoken from a very, very painful dream and almost saw the clouds of dullness surrounding him at all times slowly recede. They would not disappear overnight, obviously. Just fading enough for John to see that there indeed were other things and persons of interest out there. His world -no,  _ the _ world- did not revolve around one person -around one  _ dead _ person- who, as it happens, had a terrible lack of knowledge about the Solar System. 

He looked forward to meeting Mary again. Thus, he decided against settling in his morning routine, when he did absolutely nothing save drink tea and read his newspaper.

Instead, he took upon himself to straighten things up a bit. He opened the windows -the temperature outside was warm enough for him to do so- and let fresh air and direct sunlight into the flat, which had not been done since...well, since the windows had exploded some four years ago, when Moriarty made a show of killing people with bombs strapped to their chests.

John stood in front of the window once he had it opened, closed his eyes and basked in the sunlight for three long minutes. That was the sort of things he had hardly ever done, but he felt like doing so on that particular morning.

When Sherlock...left, John's military training kicked in and so he obsessively made the flat clean to compensate for his friend's abrupt departure, to pretend he still had a purpose, and to help himself create another comforting background, one he was used to before he met Sherlock. However, the state of military order in the flat soon deteriorated and it came back to the usual way it would be if Sherlock were still... _ here _ .

Straighten things up he did, although everything Sherlock's he could  not throw away -which was why Sherlock's room was packed with his things.

 

By tidying up the flat, John didn't want to get back to his military habit of obsessive order, he rather wanted to give himself a fresh start.

True enough, being alone with his thoughts didn't help a thing, and he could not envision himself in other people's company, about which he had a feeling that it was soon going to change. Everything was in order once again -the papers removed from the floor and stocked in cartons, the place dusted, the yellow smiley face finally removed and the bullet holes at last filled, taking away yet another reminder of Sherlock's fury when bored. John couldn't bring himself to put Billy in Sherlock's room, however. He put him in his own.

When everything was cleaned, he went out, walking with the help of his cane towards Regent's Park -an hour earlier Mary and him had agreed to meet upon the night before.

 

 

_**Mary** _

 

Mary woke up, her eyes still laden with sleep, with the sound of the alarm clock she had set for 8am. She intended to spend the morning in her bathroom to take extra-care of her appearance. It was not like this date had been planned for several days and she obviously didn't have time to book an appointment in a beauty parlour. So she had to take care of her body flaws herself, hence the alarm clock : those things took time.

She prepared her usual breakfast, tea with porridge oats and took it as she listened to the news -yet another criminal mastermind had fallen, in Spain this time. Mary was surprised at how many criminal masterminds there actually were, she hardly suspected there could have been more than the few that were sometimes talked about on the telly.

Dismiss the news as unimportant she did not. It  was important, and it would provide her with a topic of conversation with John, assuming he were interested in those kinds of news.

With such a bright intellect as she slowly discovered the previous day, she was certain he was not of the gossiping kind, but rather of the debate kind.

For a moment she wondered what this man's story could be, but then thought that she might very well discover it over time. And she knew she was getting ahead of herself, but she thought that her and John's time together would  not be ending soon.

 

Wait. Did she just think  _ 'their time together' _ ? They had not even kissed yet! Ashamed of herself for getting so hopeful, she shook her head as if to erase the thoughts she had just had, and went to the bathroom, where the slow process of transforming oneself into a magnetizing sex appealing person began.

She would be ready to face John once she had donned her battle dress. For dating in love was a battle, and falling (not to mention being) in love was a war.

And there she was again, getting ahead of herself. Thinking about 'being in love'. Ridiculous. She was not a teenager any more, and she most certainly was not living with the ludicrous belief that is 'love at first sight'.

Slightly annoyed with her heart for being so faulty, she closed the bathroom door with a little more force than was necessary and prepared for battle, resolved not to go out before she was ready.

 

 

She spotted John sat on a bench, reading in the park. How lovely he was to look at, with his sandy-turned-to-golden hair and his sense of calmness. He was reading peacefully and was entirely absorbed by the story he was reading. She decided to observe him a bit. A lady has to make her date wait to succeed, hadn't she? She scrutinised his every move, the way he was holding himself with his shoulders slightly hunched, his legs crossed and his furrowed brow showed that he didn't want to be bothered. Was his book that good, or was it all because of her? She couldn't tell.

She took a closer look at his clothes, and saw that he chose them carefully -he didn't want to disappoint her, it  _ had _ to be a good sign, right? Although she wasn't a big fan of the jumper he chose to wear, she could very well discern the faintest collar of a grey shirt underneath.

How she wished he was not too uncomfortable...

He did look like he wasn't used to dating. At least not in recent times. Before she could venture a guess as to why, John looked up from his book and saw her. Their eyes met, and they both lit up.

But they were not eager teenagers any more, they have been refrained adults for some time and hold habits die hard, they greeted each other from the short distance that separated them, him adding a pointed nod to accompany his smile to answer the little wave she gave him. Oh, she just let her enthusiasm show.  _ ' _

'Good afternoon, Mary' John said taking her hand and coming closer to peck her slightly on the cheek.

'Likewise, John' she replied. 'I am  so glad the weather is amenable today. It would have been a shame not to go in Regent's Park, now wouldn't it?'

'Oh yes. Yes, it would have. So, tell me, Mary...'

 

Their date went smoothly enough, they didn't argue and never stopped talking. For the biggest part of the afternoon, they simply strolled through the park, talking whilst walking side by side, their fingers occasionally brushing against each other -but they didn't hold hands. Holding hands was a teenager thing, they had agreed on that. Or a thing for people nauseatingly in love. Them being neither, they didn't see the point. They were only on a date, after all.

They discussed at length numerous subjects, they both had pretty much the same view on everything, which Mary remarked and John retorted that it wouldn't prevent them from having heated discussions from time to time. She flashed him a smile, as this meant they would actually be seeing each other, enough for them to have debates, anyway. And that, beside getting in a relationship with John, was something Mary was looking forward to.

It was implicit they were together, but John seemed to feel it needed saying. They had sat for a few minutes on a small coffee shop's terrace, ordered and before Mary left to get them coffee, he simply bent over and gave her a peck on the lips. Mary looked surprised for a millisecond., blushed -she turned rather crimson, to be honest, which John found endearing- and smiled. She averted her eyes, she was shy about that, but John could see that she was positively glowing and felt proud with himself. When she came back with their coffees, she brushed his fingers and let hers linger on top of his hand when she sat.

They resumed their conversation as if nothing had happened, but things were really clear, now, they were in a relationship and both parties hoped it would last.

Too soon came the time to bid each other a good evening and the promise to meet each other was made, as John kissed her goodbye in the cab they shared. He insisted she didn't pay her part of the fare.

 

 

 


	3. Change for the Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me when you feel something's off -either grammatically or otherwise =)

The next following weeks, they met a lot and spent most of their time together.

They didn't only do things-that-are-solely-done-while-on-date (to be fair, strolling through a park wasn't one of them. Having a picnic in a park was. And they did.) because they realised fairly quickly that they had a really good alchemy, and that they naturally felt good in each other's company. John quickly dismissed the rising thought that Sherlock and him were exactly the same -and yet  not a couple, as he had repeatedly said to anyone who'd make that assumption.

His day-to-day routine had changed since meeting Mary. He would mope less, take a lot more care of himself, physically -as Mary took care of his emotional welfare.

He started eating properly once again, his cupboards no longer containing only tons of biscuits and teabags, but actual food -like beans, pasta, or even olives and bread. John started cooking and improved his cooking skills significantly. He wanted to be able to cook Mary's favourite meal himself so as to impress her. She was a French cuisine enthusiast, and he took upon himself to learn some of it on his own.

He was so very dedicated to please her, time passed really fast and Christmas was upon him in a flash. He had learnt to almost properly cook her a  _ canard à l'orange _ and was struggling with the dressing. They had agreed to spend New Year's Eve together, as she would spend Christmas with her family, and he'd make an effort and spend it in Harry's company, with whom it was agreed. They had not met that often in the years of John's grief. He was still crossed with her for being an alcoholic dickhead and for messing things up with Clara, with whom he was still in touch and still hoping they could get back together.

Clara and her had agreed their former relationship could resume only under the condition of Harry's continued abstinence.

Harry was doing rather fine -as long as she wasn't left too much alone, that is. So, some two months before, he had agreed to spend time with Harry. More for her and Clara's sake than out of sibling's love.

As he had told them he was learning French cuisine, he was the one in charge of the Christmas dinner. And the fact that he still had a full month to practise was a very good thing.

Shopping for Christmas presents was rather quick, as he only had six presents to find -one for Greg, one for Molly, one for Mrs Hudson, one for Clara, one for Harry and one for Mary, obviously.

Mrs Hudson's, Greg's and Molly's he would hand when he would stop by while on his way to Harry's flat. Or if he didn't have time to hand them personally, he would just send them. Even Mrs Hudson's, who lived in the flat just down the stairs. All things considered, he thought this way would weigh him down less. He was getting better and better and they knew it, but he was afraid they would keep mentioning Sherlock and he really,  _ really _ , didn't need that. He settled for that option and added to their cards a little word, to apologise for not giving them properly. 

 

Harry lived in London, granted. But since her divorce with Clara, she had been forced to move to another part of town, way more affordable than Baker Street was.

She had to settle to Stradford, in the South East of London, where posh people tend not to go, this area being mostly inhabited by lower middle class families -who are so beneath their status the gents from the Diogenes' Club might catch the flu just thinking about setting foot there.

Still, Harry could have ended up in a far worse area of London, Stradford had its hotspots and one could be very comfortable there of one enjoyed simplicity. She had taken rent in a cosy two bedrooms flat on Great Eastern Road and, although her block was very near a very important road that linked Stradford with pretty much all of London's other areas, she wasn't bothered by the noises of the cars, buses and taxis -the block was slightly away from the main road.

Her flat was small, despite its two bedrooms, but she had decorated it so as to make it more comfortable and inviting. There were lamps all over her flat, as well as cushions to, again, put people at ease. She didn't have much furniture, it wasn't like she needed much -apart from the basics, anyway. She had tried as much as possible to give a happy note to her flat, painting the walls in bright shades of yellow in the kitchen and living room and every bit of furniture she did have had a spot of bright colours, purple and orange being the most numerous.

 

 

When she heard the doorbell, Harry was shaking with excitement, it was the very first time she would host Christmas in her flat, with her little brother as a guest. The two siblings had not spent any Christmas together since...well. 15 years, when it became apparent that Harry did have a problem and that John, despite being the very patient younger brother, could not stand it any more -even if, at times, that past-time had not become too much of a problem, Harry being sober most of the time.

The only problem was that she could not say 'no' when offered alcoholic beverages, nor could she resolve to drink soft drinks when going out with her friends. John, training to be a doctor, knew what would eventually happen to Harry, and he didn't want to watch her destroy herself and the beautiful blossoming relationship she had with Clara.

But John stopped really talking to her when his weird flatmate, Sherlock, committed suicide two years ago. He stopped talking to a lot of people and, according to him, he didn't need a depressing anxious self destroying alcoholic next of kin to bring him down any more than he already was.

Understandably, Harry was really tensed when she answered to let John in. She was glad John had agreed to spending this Christmas with her, even if she knew it was more out of concern she and Clara would get back together and that things would go smoothly between them.

She was confident it would, she had indeed been sober for three years now -thus proving Sherlock had been wrong.

Harry and John's greeting was awkward though, the both of them uncertain as to what the code of conduct was supposed to be in order to make the other feel comfortable. Or how  not to make them feel uncomfortable, more like.

She bade John to come in and offered him a hot cup of tea whilst he was sat on her most comfortable chair. They didn't manage to have a normal conversation, but the doorbell rang again, and they were saved by Clara's entrance, as she had simply rung to make them aware of her upcoming arrival.

Oh, she was a room lighter. Immediately, Harry became so much less tense, and John relaxed at seeing the two women smile warmly at each other. In Clara's eyes, one could read something along the lines of  _ 'Oh, honey, I bet you are SO glad you've given me a key to you flat' _ . And 'glad' could not begin to cover the feeling of joy Harry was feeling at the moment. 

In the blink of an eye, Clara came to John and greeted him with a warm embrace, a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek.

'Merry Christmas, John', she said. 'I  _ knew _ you'd come spend Christmas Eve with us.', she added in a broad smile. 

'Of course I would', he answered in a mock indignant tone. 'Merry Christmas, Clara'. He oh-so-briefly glanced at Harry before wishing her a Merry Christmas, to which she obviously answered, all trace of tension gone.

'Would you like something to drink, darlings? I have a marvellous cranberry cocktail if you'd like to try some? It's completely alcohol free, John, before you ask', Harry quickly added.

'Of course it is, Harry', John said with what could pass as a genuine smile.

The three of them were comfortably settled in Harry's living room, they talked about matters of no importance, like the weather, which had been rather cold for the past few weeks.

They exchanged ideas as to why the weather was that changing, and ended up talking about politics, global warming having been the reason they had fallen on that sensitive topic.

They were all supportive of the same political party. Yet they disagreed on many things concerning politics.

John being a doctor, the discussion became heated when the NHS came up. None of them had been born when it was created, yet Clara and Harry had a decent opinion on it, though they wouldn't mind if some things changed ; if it were more comprehensive, for example.

On the other hand, John thought that the original idea had been really good, but that too many Conservative governments, wars, and global economics troubles had reduced it to a mere shadow of what the NHS once was.

'So you'd rather there were nothing at all to help people?' Clara asked incredulously. 'But John. You  _ are _ a doctor.' she added as if it were a solid argument.

'And because I am a doctor, I should be happy people get help to pay for their medical expenses.' said John evenly. 'To that much I agree, obviously. Except it is not bloody enough any more! Did Harriet get financial help when...' John trailed off, aware that he might have made a very bid mistake.

But neither his sister nor her ex wife seemed particularly indignant as to John's near mention of Harry's alcoholism.

Probably because he didn't actually say it. More likely because they had both been taken aback by John calling Harry by the name her parents had given her.

Hearing John swear was one thing they had gotten used to over the years, but calling Harry by that name was something else entirely, which John had taken on when he was feeling particularly cross with her.

Neither Clara nor Harry had realised how much John had lost when Harry had fallen into the tight grip of this addiction. They always assumed they had been on their own to deal with it, never taking John into account. A lot of their problems may have been solved more easily (or dealt with and  _ actually  _ solved, for that matter) had they been less ashamed of it. Had they discussed their issues with John and not considered them theirs only.

A silence had settled after John's outburst. But it was not a silence full of resentment. Shame was in the atmosphere. For all of them.

For Harry and Clara, for not having considered John as a part of their family. John, because he thought he had broken one of his sister and Clara's numerous tabooed topics, and he felt like the ground could swallow him any second.

The atmosphere was heavy, Harry and Clara had come closer in the span of a few seconds (like they would have done in the very beginning of their relationship) : they sensed their other half was suffering an emotional distress.

John could clearly sense that something was amiss but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. He looked down at his unsteady hand. If only he could be under a fatal threat, or _any_ threat, his limbs would answer properly, he thought as he stood from the armchair and fell back in it before he could even stand.

'Bloody hell'.

'John.' Harry said in a tentative tone. 'Are you trying to say you felt rejected all those years when I...' she hesitated, her brother looking her in the eye, for her saying something paramount was disturbing. 'When I shut you out when I started drinking?'

It was John's turn to be taken aback.

'Harry. Not that I don't want to talk about that but...where in the bloody hell did that come from?!'

Just a watching participant, Clara noted how Harry had somewhat tried to close the distance between herself and her brother, leaning towards him, eyes focussed yet slightly unnerved. She saw that Harry was trying to open up to her brother, in an attempt at mending what had been so sharply severed all those years ago.

Thus she decided it best not too intervene. How bad she knew that if Harry ever decided to talk, to connect, one should really  not retreat with  _ anything _ defensive. Like what John was doing. This was the moment where their talk could go one way or another. 

And that was when Harry actually  _ insisted _ to open up. Something Clara had probably witnessed once or twice when they were on the verge of having an important talk, but had never taken heed of, as she usually was on tenterhooks. Because whenever these almost talks happened, Harry had been drinking, and Clara was loosing patience rapidly.

But Harry had been sober for three years now, and it certainly was not the alcohol talking. She genuinely felt that she had done something incredibly wrong.

'John'. Harry's tone of voice was serious. 'I am trying to understand what went wrong between us'.

'What, beside your drinking?', John retorted, anger spilling from him.

'Aren't brother and sisters supposed to be close to each other?' she said, ignoring his last remark.

With that particular sentence, John lost the small control he had over his anger.

' _ You _ tell me. Aren't brother and sister supposed to  _ be able to  _ look after one another?!' he countered, his voice raised considerably.

Clara knew that confronting her brother was not going to be something easy for Harry. She caught her eyes, and tried to make her understand that she knew what she was doing, that it was going well despite what she might think, and that she would be successful. Maybe not in one go. These kind of heart-to-heart discussions had to be made three times between herself and Harry before they could settle it. Despite the fact that they had been together for years, Clara knew it was nothing compared to a grudge held for twenty-odd years between siblings.

She tried to retreat in the kitchen to give them privacy, but Harry pleaded silently for her support. She stayed.

'Yes, they are.' Harry's voice was tense. She leant closer to John, but didn't take his hand. She knew they were not comfortable enough around one another for physical contact.

'I ought to have confided in you. I realise that.'

John stilled. He didn't recognise the grown-up Harry. He had never had a sober grown-up, responsible Harry talking to him. He didn't understand what was happening. But he was not fool enough to lash out at her when she was try this earnestly trying to...come clean? Make amends? Get on his good side for whatever reason she could have? He kept his mouth shut.

'John. I  am sorry. I really am. For everything.' Harry's voice had become very solemn. 'I wish I hadn't been such a fool. I wish I could erase all the bad things that I ever out you through. But I know this is not possible. I am very,  very aware of it. Do you think...' she swallowed thickly 'do you think it would be possible for us to try to...'

Clara squeezed her gently, to encourage her to spit it out and to tell her she was doing really well.

'...have a healthy brother-and-sister relationship? I am  _ so _ tired of not having a brother. And I'm certain you're fed up with having a disturbed sister.'

'So are you suggesting I forget everything? Every time you called me in the middle of the night to yell at me to leave you alone? Don't you think I've tried to forget  _ that  _ ?' he spat. Harry had paled, recoiled, but did not take up on John's bait. 

'I know you've tried, John. What I am saying is that we could both use a sibling's relationship. And move forward. I regret deeply it took me this long to realise it, but...' she trailed off and searched for John's face until she managed to catch his eyes. When she did, her voice was a whisper. Yet strong.

'I need you, John'.

 

John closed his eyes. He had  never heard Harry that sincere, that broken at admitting her faults, at acknowledging him as a brother in a way that was not fuelled with anger or resentment. He didn't know what to do. He sighed.

'Harry...I think it might be too late' he dramatically stopped and knew he had made a mistake. 'But', he added forcefully, 'I would like to try and have a good relationship with my sister. I can't forget, but I'll try and forgive you', he concluded in a soft voice, as Harry's eyes lit up.

 

She was so happy at John's willingness to move forward and accepting to let himself get close to her that she could not resist any longer and lunged herself at him, the way she would have done when they were children and he had just shared an amazing piece of news.

Upon seeing such a ridiculously endearing sight, Clara chimed a warm laugh, which John and Harry promptly joined, before getting back to adult postures.

The three of them were still laughing when Harry's clock stroke twelve. For a second they forgot to behave like grown ups and broad grins spread across their faces as Clara exclaimed 'Presents!'.

They exchanged presents -a book on DIY decoration for Harry, and a book he had found interesting about finance for Clara ; the two of them offered him a joined present of a rare medicine treatise, and the newspaper of the day he had taken his Hippocratic Oath. With an article about how he had achieved high grades and a picture of him. It was a perfect Christmas present, and he felt really satisfied with how pleased Harry and Clara were with theirs.

 

Harry went to the kitchen, and brought back the Christmas pudding she had spent the afternoon baking. As Clara cut it, Harry declared time for gossip was on. At John's surprised look, she chuckled. She casually asked him about his ongoing relationship. And John understood. Careful as ever, he stated that he would not divulge a thing if Mary were not present. Or he might, if Harry and Clara went first, he added cheekily, remembering the promise he'd made with Harry. They happily obliged, confessing they were 'casually dating'. Not back together yet, it was still early because of their history and the past they had had. But, though 'not quite back together', they were working on it. Getting back together was their goal in the end.

John felt really glad for them both. He could see how well they had been at the beginning of their relationship, and if Harry's earlier speech to him was any indication, John felt confident that she was addressing her addiction in the best way possible. And that they were going to get back together once they had sorted everything that had led thing to go south between them.

John ended up having to talk about his relationship with Mary to Harry and Clara. He felt really coy doing it, but considering what they had just confided in him, it would have been rude if he had not given them a piece of gossip about him. Nothing of the utmost importance having happened between the two of them just yet, he felt relief wash over him as he realised he was not going to have to lie to them. Or purposely forget to tell them something.

Both Harry and Clara were looking at him expectantly as he helped himself to another piece of the pudding. Which he made a point to tell Harry, saving himself a few more seconds.

 

He sighed, and told them how his relationship with Mary was good for him, that he was feeling better than he had felt in a little over two years and a half, and that they didn't intend to take things further just now, as they were content the way they were.

'Sorry to disappoint', he concluded with a smirk, 'but you will not hear me boast about how she is in bed. I'm not a teenager any more.'

This earned him a derisive snigger from Harry and a fake cough from Clara that did not really hide the 'rubbish!' she said.

A strangely comfortable silence settled for two solid minutes, before Clara finally broke it and said that it was getting a bit late. It was not entirely true as none of them had any real qualms over going to bed after 2.30am, but the evening and the emotions it had stirred was rapidly taking its toll and, despite the time being a little over 1.15am, they rose and cleared the table, before heading to the beds which were set up in an instant. They wished each other good night, and yet another Merry Christmas.

_ 'Well'  _ John thought as he tucked himself in his bed,  _ 'this evening was certainly interesting.' _ He drifted off to sleep.

 

John slept rather well in the sofa that had been set up for him the previous night, and woke up refreshed around 9 o'clock. Harry and Clara woke up soon after. They had shared the same bedroom, but John would not be tactless and ask them if it was the only thing they'd shared.

If anything had happened, he would not have heard it, and it was none of his concern.

The three of them were rather well rested, and ready to spend Christmas together. John was rather intent to let his sister and Clara have the day to themselves.

Knowing how he would get, he had chosen to return to 221B so as not to impose on Harry and Clara when he was certain they needed to spend some time together. He had been met with a resistance he had not been expecting, but managed to leave as soon as it was polite for him to.

Being 25 th of December, the Tube was closed. He almost resigned to walk back to Baker Street when he saw an empty cab passing by. He hailed it. 

John walked up the seventeen steps of the stairs leading to his empty flat and entered it with a terrible weigh of loneliness.

Every single one of the last three Christmases he had felt lower than possible, knowing that every person he knew and loved was surrounded by a loving family.

Resigned, he put the kettle on, sat in his armchair facing the window with a heavy sigh, and went on to brooding over his loneliness. He didn't even think about Mary, who was out with her family for Christmas.

As smitten as he was with her, John could not help himself and thought about his last Christmas with Sherlock. He knew it was not a good thing to do, but he couldn't refrain from doing so. As strange as it was, he had had a nice Christmas Eve with his friends and Sherlock. Until Miss Adler's body was found, that is. Then John had entered his Sherlock protector mode. And no matter how hard he tried, Sherlock didn't eat, apart from a bite here and there, nor did he sleep.

Needless to say that the end of 2011 was not exactly cheery. God! That Christmas had happened  _ three _ bloody years ago! Yet, he remembered every minute of it.

In the distance, John heard the water boil. He stood up and went to the kitchen to make himself tea. Once everything was ready (tea and biscuits, that is) he went on with his day. Or he waited for the day to end, more like. Brooding, and thinking intensely. He thought about the discussion he had had with Harry the previous night. What he said was true : he would forgive her. Eventually. He sure as hell wanted to have his older sister back, but he didn't know where to start.

 

Around 6pm he received a call from Mary. She wanted to set up a meeting with him on the 31 st of December. She was staying with her family until then. Her nieces and nephews had been adamant, she  had to spend this Christmas holiday with them. 'They will say the same next year', she added fondly.

They decided to meet up at Mary's, as most tearooms would be closed, and the weather was too cold for them to meet in a park as they usually did.

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	4. Echoes of Battlefields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me when you feel something's off -either grammatically or otherwise =)

31 st of December arrived rather quickly, and John was pleased about that. Ever since Mary's phone call, he had been excited like a school boy who had just been told the school holidays were to come a week early.

Around 3pm he set off to her flat. When he knocked on her door, he was completely tensed up, fearful she might have changed her mind and plans for New Year's Eve -an irrational fear anyone in the early beginnings of a relationship experiences.

Despite his knocking three times, Mary didn't answer her door, nor did he hear her voice telling him she'd be a second -and fear settled.

Just as he was getting his hand into his pocket to retrieve his mobile, he heard Mary's voice behind him, calling him at the top of her lungs -she was half a mile away.

He spun over to see her hurrying towards him, her hands full of grocery bags. Ever the gentleman, John came up to give her a hand with them. As she saw him coming toward her, her face lit up with a broad smile. When he was just in front of her, she put her bags down on the pavement and kissed him lightly.

He received it gladly, all fear evaporated, and took up the grocery bags as they proceeded to go back to her place.

They exchanged some bit of news as they walked.

 

Once inside, John had the privilege to help her unpack the groceries and put them where they were supposed to be. His heart skipped a beat when he saw sanitary towels in one of the bags : they had not yet been intimate and he was a bit on edge about this particular subject.

She took the package from the bag and said 'Not this week' with a mischievous grin. A wave of relief washed over him and his face visibly relaxed, the frown on his face disappearing.

Mary laughed slightly as she saw him relax and added 'Don't get your hopes up, soldier!' in a cheeky tone.

'I am a Captain, miss.' he answered in a mock severe military voice.

'Mm. Permission to snog, Captain?'

'Permission granted', he replied with a nod as she came to him, not in the least caring whether or not this 'permission' had been granted. This was just silly banter, after all.

 

Her lips were soft and tasted like strawberry. He proceeded to explore them as he felt her lips opening in invitation. She leaned into his arms as he caressed her hair and traced her jawline with his fingertips. John was very much in control of the kiss, showing Mary how much he wanted to take things further, his touches becoming more briskly, a tad less sensual. They had indeed agreed to take things slow, but not having been able to see her for twelve days had made John hungry with lust-y need.

True enough, the kiss they were sharing had begun in a playful way, Mary teasing John with calls of Captain, him responding accordingly and pulling her closer as their heartbeats intensified while she playfully rubbed her lower body against his.

Encouraged by her panting breath and soft moans, he traced her jawline with the tip of his tongue, and quickly his mouth was to her ear, on which he quite forcefully nibbled.

At the very back of his mind was a fear that he was going too far, too quickly. But if anything, Mary's building climax was a rather good indication that she didn't mind. At all.

She had stopped rubbing against him, for her movements had become erratic, and John had taken over, with a bit of help from his hand, that firmly fondled her still clothed breasts.

On an impulse, as he felt her pulse quicken, he bit down on her throat, no too strongly so as not to leave a mark, but firmly enough. Through the clouding of her orgasm, she was aware that John was helping her toward it.

John was purposely avoiding the wetness of her sex, because he didn't want to yield to laziness : he wanted to  _ work _ Mary to orgasm, with kisses, bites and fondling.

And when she came, she clutched John's shoulders as she threw her head backwards, silent moans of contentment escaping her lips.

John's breath was ragged, and he was more turned on than before. But having brought Mary to orgasm had somehow calmed his lust. For now.

Her blond air in a sweet tangled mess, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen from having been kissed and kissed again -she looked glorious.

An enormous smile came onto John's face, as happy as he was to have this gorgeous woman next to him. Having caught her breath back, Mary recoiled a little -if only to somewhat straighten her clothes. She couldn't help but return John's smile, let a praise -almost a whisper- escape her lips and kiss him again. Chastely, and quickly this time. That playful snog had awoken the need for John she had managed to keep restrained, not to mention the crushing orgasm he had just given her. And she didn't want to succumb to that need. Not just yet.

'Oh John...that...was amazing' she declared, looking him in the eye 'I  _ will _ have to return the favour. And I cannot wait for that.' she added with a wink. 'But for now, we must finish putting the groceries away.'

'Oh, now lady you are teasing me! I'll see to it that you properly behave in the future' he said in a tone that he hoped convened enough playfulness to counter the dominance that was his trait in bed.

 

Once they had cleared the grocery away, Mary put the kettle on, as John started getting busy fishing an easy recipe for a Christmas turkey on the Internet. There was no law saying Christmas turkeys couldn't be cooked on New Year's Eve, after all. He drank his tea whilst searching, Mary by his side, periodically nudging him with her wandering hands.

When he finally found a recipe that corresponded to the content of her fridge and cupboards, and that was neither too difficult nor too long, Mary set up to getting the ingredients that were needed.

Potatoes and carrots were peeled before being placed on a plate with the soon to be roasted stuffed turkey. The meat had been sprinkled with spices whilst the leeks and peas were cooking in boiling water.

Once the vegetables were ready, Mary added them on the plate, which already held the turkey, the potatoes and the carrots. And put everything in the oven.

'Right. While the meal is cooking, I propose to make a toast.' said John while giving Mary a glass of white wine.

'To us', he said locking her straight in the eyes. 'And to the year to come'.

'May it bring us even more joy than the past three months'.

They clanked their glasses whilst looking into each other's eyes with a more-than-eager smile on their faces. They longed for dinner to be over, they had more pressing matters to take care of.

They knew the little interlude they had when they came into Mary's flat was just a tantalising foretaste of pleasures to come, and more than once while they waited did they find themselves entangled in each other, forgetting everything about their meal.

But soon enough, the timer on the oven rang -signalling them to get the table ready and stop playing around. John took the fuming turkey out of the oven, whilst Mary laid a feisty table, with a red and golden table cloth. Satsumas and dried fruits were decorating the table, and she put their plates on opposite sides of the table, so they could indulge in each other's proximity without forgetting to eat.

The telly had been kept on, though muted, so that they could glance at it once in a while without having it disturb them.

 

Dinner went smoothly. Their eyes were sparkling, but it was not only because of the wine they had been drinking. Once dinner was over, they remained seated for another fifteen minutes, content with the excellent evening they were having. The warm glow of the candles illuminated their faces, and a comfortable silence grew whilst they reviewed the evening in their heads.

 

Mary stood up and came to John's side, taking his hands in hers. His eyes searched hers for the smallest hint of a doubt and, failing to find one, he stood up and followed her.

She led him into her bedroom, where the shutters were closed and yet enough light came from the moon's rays outside to illuminate it.

A large double bed was in the centre of the room, inviting them, yet neither of them seemed as hungry for the other as they had been in the afternoon. If anything, coming into Mary's room had made their upcoming union into a sacred act.

Neither of them was a virgin any more, but the act that they were about to do suddenly made them realise how precious and rare their love was, and humbled them into deference towards it.

Slowly, Mary's hand came up to John's face, brushing the slight stubble on his cheeks. She brought her lips to his closed eyes and pressed fluttering kisses on them.

John's responded ever so slightly, a shiver running down his spine as she put her hand in his hair. In the dim light of the room, their actions felt too soft, almost unreal. Until Mary's mouth came near John's ear to whisper words that would set both their lust and desire free.

 

In the aftermath of their frenzied encounter, they comfortably rested in each other's arms, utterly spent and sated. As their breaths slowly returned to a normal rate, a heavy slumber came upon them.

A heavy sleep that came to an abrupt end, as John had started to wriggle and whimper in his sleep. He moved with more force, trying to escape the sheets in which he had made himself a prisoner and which prevented him from going to...

He opened his eyes. Sweating, feverish, and shaking. His thoughts were not connecting with each other properly, he couldn't think straight. He had been having a nightmare -that much was obvious. Taking in his surroundings, he felt threatened as he didn't recognise the place. Then he turned his head to the right and saw Mary. Everything fell back into place. He was no longer at the bottom of a building, shouting whatever came to his mind to prevent what would happen.

He was not in the sluggish state of mind that took upon anyone who just woke up, that state where dreams and reality were intertwined.

He was not in his bed in 221B, he was at Mary's, in Mary's bed, with sweet loving Mary lying next to him. Not so much lying now. She looked beyond worried. John's only desire was to reassure her, to tell her everything was fine, but he was still too shock from the attack to do anything. Of course, John had told Mary he suffered from PTSD -when he told her he had been invalidated home from Afghanistan. He had briefly explained her what that particular disorder was about (even if she were a nurse, there still were things she didn't know), but that subject was soon forgotten. John's time in Afghanistan was a dreadful thing of the past, and he desired nothing more than to bury it deep in the darkest corners of his memory so he could make the most of his time with Mary.

But the attack he had just had was in no way connected to his time in Afghanistan. It was a subject which he had deliberately never talked to Mary about, terrorized as he was that she, too, might leave him.

It was plain enough that he had had a spectacular nightmare, his erratic breathing and tense body adding to the proofs of squirming, fighting and sweat.

Mary waited for John to recover -if only physically- before questioning him.

 

'John, darling...what happened?' she calmly asked, putting her left arm around him whilst giving him the glass of water that was on the edge of the night table.

'You were squirming in pain and terror, what was that about?'

'Erm...' he chocked back tears. 'I dreamt...God, I didn't want...you shouldn't...like that...' he continued, taking a large gulp of water.

'Shhhh, it's okay, darling. You can tell me, I am here, I am right beside you.' Those words, even if different, reminded John of Sherlock's last command, his urge to have John's eyes fixed on him. He chocked back tear. His chest was heaving and he was deliberately breathing slower, to try and calm himself.

Mary said nothing. She just waited for him to calm down. They were sitting against the bedpost, embraced, to give a sense of security to John. His head was not resting against her shoulders -he didn't want to appear like a child in need for comfort after a nightmare. He held his head backwards, the back of it resting against the bedpost. His breathing was slowly getting less laboured, his focus was getting back to him.

John felt mortified to have given Mary such a fright. Sure, he still had nightmares, but their intensity had lessened from the day they met. And tonight they had come back with as much strength as if it were the day after...the incident. He had most certainly not intended Mary to witness the mess that he was. He had thought he was getting well on the path of recovery, but that nightmare was proof something was still afoot.

John lowered his head, hunched his shoulders, heaved a heavy, desperate sigh, and started to tell Mary his story with Sherlock.

Well, hopefully there was another glass of water on Mary's night table : his mouth was not going to get dry too soon. Although, the dream he had just now...' _ Nope. Best not think about that... _ _ Well, let's get this over with'  _ he thought.  _ 'That will be the moment of truth of our relationship'. _

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and began his story.

'You know I was invalidated home from Afghanistan five years ago...' he had to push back the memory of his first meeting with Sherlock. These kinds of memory were less frequent, but the nightmare he had just had was making everything raw again.

Mary knew it was difficult for John to talk about whatever it was that he was going to tell her -he already would have, were in not making him uncomfortable. Thus she let him go on his pace and didn't press him with questions. She could tell he was grateful for that.

'I met an old friend of mine, Mike Stamford, with whom I had studied at Bart's. He set me up for a flat share with...'

John almost strangled on tears whilst thinking of this first meeting. He didn't know how to qualify Sherlock : 'incredible man', 'genius', 'consulting detective', 'high functioning sociopath' -as he had once labelled himself; but he feared the time might not be ideal for that choice of words. He settled on his name.

'...Sherlock Holmes. We barely talked and yet went looking for a flat right away. I only knew his name, where the flat was located...but nothing else. I didn't want to go and get help from Harry. See, her alcoholism had a pretty cooling effect. On anyone. And I was already seeing a therapist -orders from the doctors in the Army- due to that shot I had. I didn't need her to bring me down with her relationship problems. I couldn't...I couldn't handle her problems, and mine, at the same time!...God how selfish that sounds...'

'So you settled for a flat share'.

'Well it  was either that or leaving London. And I really couldn't do that. London has all that buzzing activity, and it's the city where I did my studies...' he paused and said in a whisper 'Gosh I have so many memories about it...' he chuckled. 'So, yeah, I did go for a flat share. With Sherlock Holmes. I learnt the first evening I spent with him that he was a consulting detective...'

Memories of the first discussion he had with Sherlock in the cab that drove them to Brixton came back to him.  _ Oh no, don't you dare. _

'What's that? I never heard of such a job before...'

'To give you the description he supplied, his job consisted in cracking a case, I quote 'when the police were out of their depths'...'

'My, my...!' she chuckled. 'Thinks himself important, doesn't he?

At hearing Mary's choice of tense, John sat upright, took a very sharp intake of breath, but didn't answer her question. Seeing John's reluctance to go further into that particular discussion, Mary knew she had made a terrible mistake. She pressed his arm tighter, to convey a sort of apology and to urge him to go on. She again broke the silence.

'Anyway, where did the two of you live?' she asked and was yet again, met with with silence.

'221B, Baker Street', John answered in a whisper.

'221B...But that's...' she stopped herself from saying anything and gently asked, in the softest voice she could muster 'Where is he, now?'

Mary could easily see the distress on John's face. Even two and a half years after it happened, even after having been able to tell it to Ella, he didn't say it again -and it hurt.

Saying it was acknowledging its reality, and  _ God! How much this hurt...! _ he felt his heart -or what was left of it, anyway- was being torn apart from his chest. John couldn't say it in the controlled voice the Army had induced in him, as he found it hard, in this particular case, to distance himself from his emotions. Sherlock said that caring was not an advantage, but... no, he couldn't bring himself  _ not _ to care. John's cheeks felt suddenly wet.

'Sherlock...Sherlock's d...' He knew he could get the words out, he had done it once already. He could see that Mary had perfectly understood what John meant. But she knew he needed to say it. Nurses must have a therapist training, sometime in their studies.

She grasped his arm even tighter, to show her support during his acknowledgement of Sherlock's death. He nodded, took a slow calming breath which he released just as slowly, and started again. 'Sherlock is dead.' John declared, each word punctuated with a pause and a short breath.

When he managed to get this fact out of the way, he felt liberated and much closer to Mary. He had not told her everything yet, but he felt it would be so much easier with this first admission out in the open. Though John had not said it in words, it was obvious his flatmate's death had left him devastated.

Instead of bluntly asking John how he felt about his flatmate's death, Mary calmly inquired :

'What was he like?'

John knew he could either disguise some elements -like how deeply connected they were- and risk losing her for lack of honesty, or just tell her the whole story, no matter how embarrassing things got.

John opted for the latter : he felt so much better with Mary than he had in years, he felt he had a purpose again, and he most definitely didn't want to throw it all away out of masculine pride.

He thought better than telling her right away that Sherlock was a beautiful man, though. He would, eventually, but it wasn't going to be with these words he would start describing the late consulting detective.

'Gosh...where to begin...' and he thought that he sounded a tad smitten at the moment the words escaped his lips.

'Sherlock...had an aversion for  _ any _ kind of rule...He deemed them stupid. He thought them to be a hindrance, that one would waste time because of them. So he never cared about any rule, from basic respect to actual laws. Granted, it helped that his brother...nah, forget about that. Don't want you to get kidnapped or something...Anyway, since Sherlock had an over active brain...well things would get rather ugly, he'd be the most bored person on the planet. And  _ actually shoot the wall. _ Imagine I said that without shouting?'

Mary wanted very much to interject that she thought the man weird, but she kept her mouth shut. Reading her thoughts, John chuckled a little.

'Yes, he  _ was _ a bit of a mad man. But such an amazing person...!' he added with a smile. 'He could throw tantrums better than any four year-olds when things didn't go his way, but then when they did, he was just a marvel.'

He sighed, and closed his eyes, reliving the good moments life with Sherlock entailed.

A solitary tear would fall from his shut eyes from time to time. John kept silent for several minutes, hearing the beauty of Sherlock' compositions, remembering the speed at which he would deliver his deductions to the Yard, remembering the depth of his voice, how amazed he was by the seemingly infinite amount of information his mind held ; John thought of Sherlock naturally cold limbs and his alabaster skin. Of the depths held within his eyes. Of the fierceness he had against anyone and anything that challenged him or his family. To John's mind, Sherlock's family entailed all of four people, namely Mrs Hudson-not-his-housekeeper, DI Greg Lestrade, coroner Molly Hooper and himself. And most certainly not his next of kin. John was fairly sure Sherlock had pretty much the same idea regarding this patchwork family.

John's mind drifted away, but was brought back to reality by Mary. She was pressing herself against his chest, fully embracing him now. Squeezing his middle, she asked in a very hushed tone :

'Why...why did he stop?'

The question as to 'how' Sherlock had left was implicit, and utterly irrelevant. What good could come out of any description of that...the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had just...taken a step forward when he ought to have stopped walking. Every time one had tried to make John describe what happened, an insufferable agony erupted within him. But seeing as Mary had asked him, he eventually complied -albeit reluctantly.

'He was playing a game, and he lost. He became a fraud in the view of everyone because of Jim Moriarty', he added angrily. As he said so, his whole body tensed. Mary sat up and straightened her back.

'I understand. I do. I don't quite understand why you held his reputation so high, though. Were you afraid the turning off of the people might bounce off on you?'

'Obviously  _ not _ !' he snapped angrily. 'I was concerned for him', he added in an undertone, the unsaid adverb 'deeply' so clearly missing he might have said it.

Mary and John kept quiet for a few minutes, after which Mary broke silence, once again, and asked John if he were feeling better. He scoffed.

'No. I mean...I mean I  know you're not feeling better about that particular subject because you shared your nightmare. Sherlock is still obviously haunting you. But just maybe you could...feel lighter? I don't know, John. I'm sorry if I have upset you', she said in a sigh.

 

John took her right hand and held it to his mouth. He kissed the inside of her wrist, the back of her hand and her knuckles whilst saying:

'Yes, you are right. I  do feel lighter about that...And sharing it with you, sharing a bit of the ordeal I have been put through...'

He shot her a slight glare, as if to say ' _ No, I can't hold him responsible for that. I know, it's been more than two years, but I  _ _ can't _ _ ' _ .

'...sharing some of it with you  does help to alleviate the agony. Talking about it to an interested party and not someone who's actually paid for that and who probably doesn't care could...I mean...would you...help me get past this? It would help me improve my emotional...'

Mary cut him short and firmly pressed her soft warm lips against his hard chafed ones. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and looked him in the eyes.

'Oh John. Yes. Yes, of course I  will help you get through this. Of course I will'.

She kissed him again, less firmly.

'What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn't support you through everything?'

He leant into her kiss and her warm embrace, and kissed her with even more tenderness to show his appreciation for her being beside him. Naturally, after a few hours' rest and such sensuality, both their bodies were ready for another show of intimacy. But they were happy enough with tender embrace and cuddling, just enjoying each other's presence.

They laid down their bodies on the mattress whilst kissing and ended up in a warm embrace, Mary stroking John's hair before ever so slowly drifting back to sleep.

 

They woke up in Mary's bed, in her flat down on Wellington Road on New Year's Day. The sun was shining brightly on a coat of snow which had fallen during the night. John turned his head to meet Mary's face, and contemplated her sleeping with the sunlight falling on her face. Her golden hair was making a halo around her round sweet face. He smiled and kissed her forehead. Her eyes slowly fluttered open and when her gaze met John's, she flushed and smiley shyly, as if she were ashamed of having shown him herself in such an intimate and defenceless way.

John's smile broadened, obviously. He then proceeded to nudge tender kisses on Mary's soft and pink lips and, opening his eyes to look into Mary's he declared this day was to be a really good one.

After cuddling leisurely in bed for another good twenty minutes, John took it upon himself to get up and prepare breakfast. That is to say, to put the kettle on, get two teabags and two cups. Mary had fuelled on citrus flavoured black tea, for whenever John came to her place, which was more and more frequent.

Oh, and he made toasts and took the butter and jam out to go with it all. He ten sat on the sofa to wait for Mary to appear. It was not the first time he had come here, but it  was the first time he had actually stayed over. As his eyes settled on the lamp just right to the sofa, his mind drifted to contemplate his hopes for the year that had just started. Mainly the hopes he had to form a really strong relationship with Mary. He felt happy around her, a feeling that always eluded him prior to his getting together with Mary. But that feeling seemed to become rather constant as time went by. He was becoming used to feeling warm inside, as if the hole Sherlock had left were slightly coated over. That's why he had absolutely no intention for his relationship with Mary to eventually come to an end, as all his previous relationships had before.

They had been together three months now, which could be seen as a rather short time for a relationship -let alone for thinking of taking said relationship to the next level in the near future. Out John was still falling for Mary, harder every day, and it seemed it would never stop.

His musings were interrupted by a surreptitious hand that took hold of his as soft lips were fluttering kisses on his neck.

'Thanks for the tea, honey', Mary said as she sat next to him. 'Thinking hard, were you?' she inquired with a slight raise of her eyebrow.

John looked at her, briefly, before saying:

'Yeah, well...you know. I'm not really a morning person, so...”

A sweet laugh chimed from Mary's mouth.

'Oh, honey, you don't need to justify your morning thinking. You were out for only five minutes, after all.', she added with a smile.

She stood up and, as she had not let go of John's hand, he felt compelled to follow her, lest he lost the sensation of his hand in hers.

They took their breakfast speaking animatedly about the plans they had considered for the day and decided to go for a morning stroll through Regent's Park before spending the afternoon in a cosy shop, where they could read and chat over a cup of tea.

The weather was mild enough to go outside without too many layers of clothes. John was, as per usual, wearing a jumper beneath a coat warm enough for the autumn season, and a pair of jeans. Mary had opted for a light cardigan under a warm furry-hooded winter coat which stopped a little beneath her knees. John had liked it very much when she had taken hold of the skirt he had bought her as a Christmas present.

She looked hot as a bonfire with that slit skirt, and upon seeing how well it fitted her, John could not regret buying it for her.

The sun shone brightly on Mary's golden hair and, as he watched her, he felt he really was in love, and that it wasn't just a side effect of sharing his traumatic experience with her. He hadn't felt the swelling of his heart when she looked at him before.

He didn't want her to only be his therapist, he wanted her to be a part of his life. He  really felt alive. And happy. All thanks to her. 

When Mary turned her head towards him with such an open smile on her face, John suddenly  _ knew _ . He momentarily stopped walking, looking completely stunned. And before Mary could notice anything, he resumed walking by her side, a little closer than the moment before and he took her hand in his. This was something he almost never did, especially in a public area.

 

When John came back to 221B at the end of a glorious 1 st of January with Mary, he sat with a cup of tea to help himself think. He tried to analyse his feelings and, more to the point, how he felt towards Mary. He took a sip of tea. Decided to call her to ask her just that, with the support of tea. And he did. He took out his mobile phone, pressed the button he had assigned her as speed dial -even though it was not necessary, her being the only contact he actually called.

Her phone rang, several times. And with each passing bips, he grew more and more anxious that she might not want to answer his calls. Which was an absurd notion, seeing as she had snogged the life out of him just to tell him goodbye. But he couldn't help the growing tension from taking control of his every thought. Finally she picked up.

'Hi John. Have you forgotten something?'

John was really having trouble working up the courage to speak.

'John?' Mary asked again. 'Are you all right?'

John swallowed strongly and asked, with all the control he had managed to muster :

'What would you think if we were to move in together?'

_There. I've said it. I'll just wait for her to crush my heart._

 

On the other side of the line, Mary was exhilarated. She was so joyous at the prospect of living with John that her voice had disappeared. She was having a rather hard time forming coherent thoughts, but she eventually regained control over her own voice, if not composure.

'John.'  _ Breathe, silly. If you stop now he'll think you don't want to move in with him.  _ 'Moving in with you would be fabulous, honey.'

She heard a really loud sigh on the other side of the line and realised John had been as anxious over the prospect of asking her as she had been over answering.

She heard the relief in his voice as he asked if they could talk about it over dinner a fortnight from this day.

'Nothing too fancy. It's not like I'd...'

She heard him turn crimson as she finished his sentence in her head.

'Of course, honey, whatever you want. Although we might have to wait some time...'

'Sorry, what? You just said you were okay with it?' he said in a rather desperate voice.

'No. I am. John, I  am thrilled by the idea. Really, I am. Just... think about the date, John.'

'Oh.'

Mary heard him stop his walk through the flat. She knew he was putting his left hand to his brow, closing his eyes and mentally abusing himself. In fifteen days it would be an especially grim day for John.

'I  will be there, John. Do not think for one second that I'm putting it off because I don't want to be with you for some reason. I  _ do _ , John.'

_God if only I could his head in my hands and just shower him in kisses..._

'I really, really want to move in with you, honey.'

She heard him take a deep breath.

'So you're saying-'

'- that I'll move in with you. Next month.  But ' she added with a very strong emphasis on the word, 'we'll meet up in a restaurant and discuss about all of it there. Agreed?'

'Does 15 th January sound good to you?' John blurted.

Mary kept silent. They had sort of agreed it wasn't a good date for John. But actually, it  _ was  _ a good idea : she'll have time to look on properties (as John would do too) and John could build a happy memory on top of a devastating one. Making the desperate one smoother, easier to tolerate.

'Yes, honey. That sounds like a good idea in the end' She paused. 'And I'm really looking forward to it.'

'Great. That's great.' She could hear a brighter voice and guessed he was smiling. 'Well, I won't keep you up then. It's getting late, after all', he added.

'Yes...goodnight, John. I'll see you tomorrow, then?'

'God yes!' he exclaimed.

Mary smiled inwardly, pleased that John seemed to understand the concern she had upon the date.

'Sleep tight, honey. Sleep tight.'

She hung up before he had the time to pursue the discussion. She hated texting, but staying too long on the phone to say goodbye was not her cup of tea either.

 

They kept meeting up with each other on the following days, never once talking about the phone call John had given her at the end of the very first day of the year.

They had come to an unspoken agreement about it : they would not talk about it before the date they had agreed on.

The days kept getting longer and longer, without too many rainy days. Mary and John continued to go on strolls through the various parks of London, stopping more often than not to talk over a cup of tea -the weather was still cold, after all- and more generally, spending time together and appreciating each other's company.

They went to the museums, mostly because Mary liked it. As for John, the exhibits were...well,  art . And art was not his cup of tea. But he wanted to continue to please Mary. And he might find himself an interest in art, if he tried hard enough. He highly doubted it, seeing as even Sherlock had not achieved to make him like it.

John was still crippled by memories of the fall, but they were not as strong as they once were. He thought he was slowly coming to terms with his grief. But then he remembered the dreadfully vivid nightmare he had had when Mary and he... He had come to the conclusion that his mind considered sleeping with Mary as a betrayal to Sherlock's memory, as if he were cheating. Even if the man were not around any more. Even if they were not a couple. Despite all this, his twisted mind had deemed it good to punish him from moving on with his life. He sometimes wondered if his mind were not an extension of Sherlock, to torture him so. But then he thought that Sherlock would have considered these to be mere trivia not worth his time.

Because sentiment is a chemical defect, after all.

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	5. The Landmark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me when you feel something's off -grammatically or otherwise =)

15 th January came. John had booked a table for two at The Landmark on Marylebone at 6.30pm. It was quite a fancy restaurant, contrary to what John had said to Mary on the phone. But then again, he was talking about making dinner  _ himself _ .

He had asked for the table to be placed in a way so as to avoid eavesdropping and staring. He intended to keep his conversation private -the way he had never managed to when Sherlock was still there.

He arrived at the restaurant at 6.15pm, followed the waiter after he had given his name, and took a seat whilst waiting for Mary to arrive. He ordered a glass of white wine he intended to drink so as to work up the courage he was going to need for the discussion to come. John sat at his table, his back straightened up because of all the tension that was boiling inside him and casually read the menu in the hope of giving himself a countenance.

He glanced at his watch (6.20pm) and took another sip of wine. He resumed his reading of the restaurant's menu.

Suddenly, a shadow stood over him. He looked up. And stared with his mouth wide open.

The person in front of him looked him straight in the eye too, but John could smell the tension and feel it radiating every where.

They kept staring at each other for a minute, the other man's  yelling the apology John had wanted to hear the moment he came standing in front of him.

His eyes were glassy with freshly spent tears and he looked terribly unsure of himself. As unsure of himself as John had ever seen him, not even while at Baskerville.

Uncertainty began to crop inside John. Could he actually believe his own eyes? Were they not playing tricks on him? But then all doubt over his mental stability evaporated, shattered by his former flatmate's deep, yet broken, voice. Sherlock's voice was a mixture of sadness, regret and joy.

Before Sherlock could speak another word, John got to his feet and threw the most forceful punch he had ever thrown, to Sherlock's face, right on his mouth. His intent had been to hurt, causing Sherlock's upper lip to end up split by the sheer force of John's punch.

Sherlock's eyes went wide as he saw John's fists clench, but he didn't move to avoid it.

 

John didn't say any thing. His eyes spoke volumes, even more than every little detail that Sherlock could pick up. John had undoubtedly grieved over his 'suicide' and still did, if he were to take into account the deep agony still held behind his pupils.

The first time he had caught John and Mary together walking in Regent's Park, Sherlock had felt his heart clench at the sharp hand of jealousy. And resigned not to go to him sooner, reluctantly. He had more than deserved to be replaced. To not enjoy John's company. John deserved more than any one else to be happy.

And  _ he _ had no right to be jealous, he knew that. He dismissed it as something which required investigating and possibly involved asking John.

But to John he was dead. He had made it as unmistakable as he possibly could, to keep him from danger.

But now, every little trail of Moriarty's web, every criminal ever involved had been taken care of, and it was time for him to go back home. To go back to John.

He wanted to resume their relationship where it had been put to a momentary stop -that much was clear for Sherlock. Not so much for John. Sherlock was unaware John  _ could  _ and  _ would  _ not resume it in the blink of an eye. Unable to understand that things could never be the same again.

Sentiment. That was something he could not understand, he needed John to explain it to him.

So here he was, wearing the same smart clothes he had before he took his fall, dread for John's rejection creeping up inside of him as he stood.

_ Sentiment.  _ _ What _ had become of him?

Sherlock saw John's fists clench as he saw the reality of Sherlock's return dawn on him. He didn't move. He knew what was to come.

He locked eyes with John, knowing that would trigger his fury.

But John was a polite man, and Sherlock was confident that he would not do worse than punch him in public. In a fancy restaurant.

He just wanted to make sure John still cared enough to display a reaction, and wanted that reaction to come quickly, as he was sure it would help him feel better. Or only acknowledge Sherlock's return. He did not want to be ignored. And he was  not disappointed. 

Sherlock had received many, many punches in his life -and much worse- but he just retreated in his head, where the physical and psychological pain could not hurt him. But this time, he  _ chose _ to be present for it. And it was hard.

Physically, it was just another punch, albeit a really strong one -John had been trained in the Army, after all. The psychological pain he felt because of it was almost worse than his silent goodbye to John.

As much as he wanted to ignore his feelings, when it came to John he could not refrain from feeling them. He did not understand them most of the time though, and it was annoying. He could not pretend he had no feelings whatsoever.

He took John's punch as humbly as possible, but could not prevent his body from recoiling, his hand to reach up to his aching and bleeding lips, nor his eyes to close tight for a good three seconds.

He was still hunched, his hand to his lips when he opened up his eyes, trying to evaluate if John would hit him again. When he saw it was the only punch he would get, he stood up. John's clenched jaws indicated that fury was boiling up inside him, and his pupils were dilated because of ire and agony.

Sherlock decided to look John intently in the eye and motioned John so they could sit and talk. John tensed when he took his elbow. Strange. He looked him in the eye with a very,  _ very _ firm glare.

'Problem?' Sherlock asked, genuinely confused at his not seeing John  _ in the least _ happy.

John closed his eyes. He saw him swallow thickly and take a sharp intake of breath through his flared nostrils, indicating he was beyond furious, and most likely closed to any attempt at conversation with him.

Still, he answered. But when John opened his eyelids, his pupils had almost returned to their normal size and his eyes, even if not quite his voice, were steeled.

'I do not want to talk with you. Sherlock.'

John's voice was an attempt at coldness. An almost successful attempt at coldness, were it not for the sharp pain piercing through it.

 

When John had felt his voice menacing to quiver, he did try to be dramatic. He had paused before saying 'Sherlock', but of course Sherlock would not be fooled by such a weak attempt. The man's face was an open book, bristling with emotion, so very unlike the Sherlock he had known for two years. But then again, this Sherlock had died, hadn't he?

John clenched his jaw once again, when he felt Sherlock's hand move from his elbow. Relieved, and yet afraid to lose his touch as if he would die again.

But Sherlock simply took a tissue and wiped away the blood coming out from his split lip. Before John knew it, Sherlock's mouth had stopped bleeding. The git was very deft and must have somehow wiped it all away without him noticing.

Sherlock drew closer to him. John had made clear he was not open to touch and Sherlock had let go of his elbow, but somehow he needed to e physically close to him.

Dilated piercing grey eyes bore into his, and in a rasp deep voice, he heard Sherlock ask him:

'Don't you miss, John? The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins...' Sherlock made the slightest pause 'Just the two of us against the rest of the world...'

When he heard that, John lost it. He knew Sherlock was trying to make amends by promising things would be as they were, albeit awkwardly. But he just could not deal with that. With Sherlock. Not any more.

John head-butted him. Blood flood from his nose. John was ready to bet his next salary that, as focussed as Sherlock was on his face, he hadn't seen that coming. Sherlock's eyes had gone wide with surprise and hurt, and he saw them slightly glisten with tears.

'Get. Out. I Do.  Not . Want. To. See. You.  Ever . Again.' John said harshly, punctuating every word. With a last, quick glance at John, Sherlock bailed. He did not bother to take his coat with him.

John found himself hollow at what had just happened. He went back to his seat and, completely shocked, downed the remaining of his glass in one go.

He had forgotten it was wine and that he was supposed to enjoy it but, too out of it as he was, he didn't care in the slightest.

' _ Damn. That was not strong enough' _ . And as this thought occurred to him, he put his hand up to call a waiter and have a dry whisky. His glass came right away.

The encounter with Sherlock had obviously been witnessed, and although the restaurant's administration was in its every right to expel him, no one in the restaurant wanted to irate John any more than he already was. John found that he didn't care.

As soon as he had his drink, he took the glass, whispered a thank you to the waiter in a tight-lipped smile and, once again, downed it in one go. He closed his eyes for a second, focussed on the fire that had ignited at the back of his throat, pulled a face and simultaneously throwing his head to the right, distaste evident on his face.

He opened his eyes and, before he had any time to think, Mary came in with a broad smile on her face, completely unaware of what had just happened. Yet. She bent to kiss John and she saw the distress still so clearly written on his face, cautiously sat down and enquired if she had missed anything, all trace of her smile vanished, and replaced with genuine concern.

She took his hands in hers, briefly noting the empty glass of what seem to have been whisky, and lowered her head to catch John's avoiding eyes.

'John?'

He closed his eyes.

'What happened?'

John tensed, trying to muster the strength to say it. And, in a whisper, he answered.

'He came back.'

 

 

What should have been a romantic dinner with talks of moving in together, and how, and when and where, turned out to be a discussion of John's feelings towards Sherlock's return.

Mary could very well see that John was still distraught by the encounter -no matter how hard he hid it. Or thought he did.

Who wouldn't be distraught by such news, anyway?

She had, at first, barely managed to get him say any thing more than 'he came back'.

Who had come back was definitely obvious, especially if she took the date into account, and the hurt behind the words. Yet, something else, that didn't sound too far from relief, pierced through it all.

And she knew of only one person who could have made John feel that way.

She closed her eyes and tried to remain calm. She somehow doubted John would ever associate himself with Sherlock again, but the way he had described his relationship with him was as a couple -a couple who never indulged in physical relations, but a couple nonetheless.

And with the way John had talked about Sherlock, she had come to the conclusion that he still loved him.

What Mary wanted more than any thing, though, even more than keeping John' love for herself, was to protect him from any harm.

And it was clear than in the span of five minutes Sherlock had just destroyed what took John three years to painfully restore some of his sanity. She had assured John that she was there for him, always, and that she understood if he needed some time to think.

John looked up at that. He looked hurt.

He briefly closed his eyes and declared that he would certainly not get back on his word to move in with Mary.

'Of course', he said, 'I'll probably be hard to live with in the first few days, time to adjust to sharing a place and all, but in the end we'll make this work. I promise.'

Mary refrained from saying that if John were going to be hard to be live with it would not be because of what he had just said. She knew he would be depressed because of Sherlock's return. And angry at his incapacity on taking any decision on that.

Oh, but she understood what John was feeling. She wanted him to know that she was here, no matter what.

'Well, then. I suppose we ought to check on properties we'd settle in?'

'Might as well', John answered with a forced grin.

Despite the fact that their dinner had started in a pretty grim way, it ended with hope for their shared life as a couple.

Mary was not so naïve as to let herself be fooled, but she didn't say any thing to John. He might just need to put his head in the sand for a few days before getting back stronger and really able to deal with it. Mary was an optimist, and that was part of what John loved about her.

They exited the restaurant hand in hand, unaware of a tall, slender man who was watching them intently.

 

 

_That didn't go too well..._ thought Sherlock, eyes still focussed on the couple, but his mind remaking the scene over and over again. What went wrong ? Why had John been so furious, so adamant not to hear from Sherlock again ?

He had tried his best to appear as smoothly as possible before John, and had thought that he would be glad to have his friend back.  _Surely he had not believed all this time the show I've put on ages ago was real... ?_

Sherlock continued thinking, lost in the depths of his mind palace, going through every detail on feelings John had so patiently explained to him, making sure there was nothing he could use to understand John's reactions.

A bitter cold was piercing through Sherlock's clothes -he had been standing there for a long time and not moving an inch.

A shiny black car pulled up just in front of him, but he did not notice it. He had not even notice how cold he was.

'Do come inside, brother mine. Mummy would be most upset were you to catch a cold...' Mycroft had had to come out of the car and go to his brother to tell him this, practically in his ear, before he could see Sherlock actually move.

Once they were both inside, Mycroft, sat at the front, turned towards his brother and eyed him minutely.

'I assume dear John did not take too good on your come back.', he said, eyeing Sherlock's split lip.

'Nor your silence regarding the sham of your death, for that matter.'

In this moment, Sherlock felt like a child again. Looking up to his big brother, he deemed something he had deemed irrelevant for more than two decades : he asked for his wisdom.

'Why, Mycroft ? Why is he so upset ?'

Mycroft purposely watched through the window : the falling snow outside offered  _his_ mind the quietness it so needed to deal with such distress.

Mycroft closed his eyes, his forehead against the coldness of the window. Sherlock allowed himself to go back to being a defenceless child, his behaviour had regressed to that of a child : both hands gripping tightly Mycroft's forearms, heart beating fast and wetness in his eyes, he waited anxiously for his brother's guidance.

He who was so collected at any other moment of his life had let everything loose when he had noticed his brother's appearance. The one who kept reminding Sherlock that  _caring is not an advantage_ cared so much...

Mycroft turned his head and looked at the desperation Sherlock's body was showing. Understandably upset by his state of being, and despite having gone through years of restrained emotion, he took Sherlock's hand and clutched them tightly.

He then met Sherlock's gaze and said :

'Oh, Sherlock...John...John just needs time to get used to your being back.' He had not blinked or displayed anything that could even hint at at something that was not reassurance.

Sherlock would still not believe him. Had it occurred under other circumstances, it would have been funny, so Sherlock-textbook this was.

'I know how much you despise it, Sherlock, but you need to sleep in order to find a solution to your predicament on your own.'

Before his brother, plagued by an atrocious absence of self worth could draw a breath and be the negative person he was before meeting John, Mycroft added :

'And I am  _very_ confident you  _will_ find an appropriate solution shortly.'

Still holding Sherlock's hand and gaze, Mycroft did something he so seldom did he would hurt in the following minutes : he  _smiled_ , to convey how much he trusted Sherlock to get out of this, how he  _knew_ he could, how it would all get better in the end.

'Here we are, brother mine. I took the liberty to have some of your clothes moved to my place. I hope it is not too inconvenient.', he said looking his usual self, as if he weren't in the least concerned by other people's opinions.

Catching his brother's change of body language, Sherlock understood that enough brotherly affection had transpired and that they should revert to their usual composed selves.

Sherlock let go of Mycrof, re arranged his hair, blinked twice to have the wetness leave his eyes and straightened up. He looked as disconnected as usual. In fact, were it not for the redness of his cheeks and eyes, one who sees but does not observe might say that Sherlock could not experience emotions.

 


	6. At the End of the Tunnel Shines a Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to tell me when you feel's something's off -grammatically or otherwise =)

Sherlock's mind felt numb, his entire being feeling as if he were trapped in a smothering atmosphere. Everything was all so  _dull_ , devoid of any flavour, tasteless.

He was bored out of his mind, he could not do anything to escape his situation, and no brilliant solution would come to his rotting mind to remedy the John Watson Problem. He had tried coming back to him, revealing that he was, in fact, not dead, that his apparent suicide was just a sham. He had not even had time to explain how, nor even why -John was prone to sentiment, after all, and Sherlock would have expected to be ask an explanation. John had just...well. He had made his position on the matter clear.

Loathe as he was to admit it to himself, Mycroft  _ had _ warned him his return might just not be well received. He would never admit it to his face, Mycroft was already insufferably smug enough.

And Sherlock had immediately deflected this information and denied it, he didn't want Mycroft to explain his reasoning. But then again, he might just not have given any. He so enjoyed having a deep understanding on some things his emotional robot of a brother did not...

Sherlock knew that he should ask for advice -from Molly, for example- but instead he elected to stay cooped up in his bedchambers, curtains drawn in a gloomy atmosphere to equate his own somber mood.

Mycroft's household staff had been carfelly chosen foor their discretion. Yet they had been instructed to keep silent and did not even whisper when working in the east wing of their boss' manor. Sherlock thanked Mycroft for this -as silently as possible. Obviously.- he knew he couldn't suffer their interference. Hearing their footsteps and the faintest sound of them working was bad enough, there really was no need for them to distract him any further.

 

Obviously, Sherlock had tried coming back to solving cases. Even with Molly's help, though, his progress was dreadfully slow, and he soon gave up, hiding himself from the world. Although he had no real idea why his brain would not work. He had not anticipated John's rejection, but that couldn't be the reason he was...

He had been living rather fine before meeting John, after all. If one does not take into account his heavy use of drugs for an extended period of time, obviously.

But even that was prior to his association with the Met and Lestrade.

_ Why _ was he so... ?

Sherlock didn't like not knowing. So he sulked. And sulked. And sulked some more, for a good two weeks.

Until Mary Morstan -of all people ! He had not even properly  _ met _ her!- came to Mycroft's. She must have given a hell of a good reason for Mycroft to authorize her into his house and to see Sherlock. Sherlock had researched who Mary Morstan was, and John could not have chosen more common a girlfriend. Again.

Until she came into Sherloc' sanctuary, that is.

 

She didn't bother knocking, she just let herself in and settled onto a chair after taking her red coat off. Then, she waited. John must have told her, at some point, that Sherlock could and would ignore a person until he deemed them interesting enough.

So Mary seemed to know things about him.

Interesting. But Sherlock was not ready to find it  _ that _ interesting. One side glance at her and he knew most of her life.

She was a nurse -obvious from the way she held herself, a bit hunched with bags under her eyes due to long working shifts and hauling patients yet easy to go to- they have met at work.

She enjoyed knitting, the callouses on her thumb and pointing finger were a huge hint, but the scarf she was wearing was enough to confirm it. The scarf obviously was handmade and had been finished earlier that day, it did look unused enough. It was unlikely a friend of hers had finished i and given it to her before even correcting the little wrongs, so  _ she _ obviously had knitted it herself.

With the knitting habit he discovered a personality trait which seemed to mirror one of John's : patience.

Sherlock would see how patient she could be, and elected to ignore her.

 

Several minutes passed, during which Mary was looking at him thoughtfully whilst Sherlock would just rosine his bow, settle his violin under his chin, close his eyess and let his fingertips work their magic.

He played the Sonata Numero 1 by Johann Sebastian Bach and then a piece by Vivaldi. As he finished it, he expected the inspiration to come to him, but nothing came to his mind. He looked up to see that Mary was knitting. And not at all interested in what he was doing.

After a few long seconds without him playing his violin, she looked at him, then at his violin, then at him again. She didn't utter a single word, she just looked surprised he had stopped playing at all. But then she did something extraorinary : she  _ shrugged _ . At  _ him _ . As if this was just some minor setback. He found that infuriating, especially as she went back to knitting as if nothing was amiss. He sighed out of frustration, although he tried to be as discreet as possible -he couldn't have her hear this. He set his violin down and decided to go back to his latest experiment, even if it was too early for it to have made any significant progress.  _ Better look busy than prone to losing it _ , thought the man for whom other people's opinions were irrelevant.

He wondered whether maggots would annoy Mary, as it was part of his experiment. She did hear him make Petri dishes rattle against each other, he saw that she did. But she didn't even reacted, not in the slightest. She didn't even  _ look up _ to see what he was doing. 

Another surge of annoyance flashed through him. He didn't give her any hint as to how he received her lack of reaction, though. He tried to look as composed as possible.

He busied himself on his experiment, taking measurements and such and ducked under his microscope to continue on evaluating the change of the environment in his Petri dishes. Which was very, very slim, but he  _ needed  _ to be busy to forget Mary's presence and absence of interest in his activity.

Afterwards he retreated to his Mind Palace. He carefully put the notes on his ongoing experiment under a glass case, fittingly labelled 'ongoing experiment', and wandered in here for a time.

 

When he emerged, the room was still as gloomy as before, there was no movement, no sound, not even the clicking noise of knitting needles.

_ She's fallen asleep. So what ?  _ Why did the room feel as silent as it was before Mary came in ? He looked to the chair she had been sitting on. It was empty. Save from the fading scent of her perfume, it was as if she'd never been here.

Sherlock thought to analyse her visit for a time, but he quickly dismissed it as being mere curiosity from Mary's part.

On the following day, Sherlock was once again busy doing nothing.

The hinges on the door, although recently greased, had a little creaking noise as Mary let herself in, took off her coat and sat on the chair she had chosen the day before. She didn't greet him ; if not for an almost imperceivable nob, one might think she didn't acknowledge him.

Now  _ that _ was interesting. This was more than mere curiosity. She seemed, as the day before, content to keep quiet and mostly ignoring him.

_A battle of will it shall be, then._

Sherlock returned to doing nothing.

 

The same scenario repeated five days in a row. The sixth day, Mary didn't come. Sherlock found it odd, but didn't think more of it.

The seventh day, Mary didn't come either. Sherlock found it odd, unsettling even, especially as he noticed he was affected by it. He had grown accustomed to the woman's presence. He wondered on this for hours until sleep finally claimed him, despite his protests.

On the eighth day, there was  _ still _ no Mary. Sherlock thought briefly to go and ask  _ Mycroft _ what this was all about, but he felt too out if it to do so.

On the ninth day, Sherlock emerged from his microscope to find a presence looming over him.

He blinked once, twice, opened his mouth, closed it, re opened it, closed it again.

'John.' was all Sherlock said before the man came over to him and hugged him fiercely, lest he disappeared once again.

'Never. Do. That. Again.' was all John said, after a solid minute hugging Sherlock, who was too taken aback to form any coherent though, much less voice them.

After what seemed like an eternity, John withdrew from the embrace and gave Sherlock a look that meant  _ All right. Let's have it. _

Sherlock appraised him and in genuine curiosity asked 'What ?'

'Why you left. Why you came back. Things like that.' John answered, trying to be casual so as to lessen the tension that was already there, and would probably not lessen.

Sherlock looked dumbfounded.

' _ Why ? _ You know that alrea...ah.  _ Why  _ as in...Right. Simple, really.'

'I'm listening.  Very closely.' John said in a tone that mean  _ and the reason you give better be bulletproof. Because I swear to God if I'm not satisfied with it, what you pulled off won't be a sham any more. _

John was  _ very _ talented in saying more with a precise tone, a simple  _ look _ than with a thousand words.

'John, before I explain why, could you promise me you'll refrain from asking questions before I'm finished... ?'

John gave him a dark look, but agreed nonetheless.

'Thank you. So. As you know and no doubt remember, we were facing Jim Moriarty -'

'That rings a bell, yeah'

'-who was at the head of an enormous criminal organisation. You may remember that Moriarty wanted to destroy me and my reputation because I got in his way.'

John snorted. Of  _ course _ he remebered.

'When I though I had everything under control, one of my homeless network phoned you, pretending to be paramedics and that Mrs Hudson had been shot. Once you left, as I suspected you would, I invited Moriarty onto Bart's roof.'

Sherlock could hear John thinking  _ Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up. Never would have figured that one on my own.  _ Sherlock shot him a you-said-not-to-intervene-before-I'm-finished look.

'When we were on the roof, he told me in essence that whatever I had planned to do would fail. He then went on to explaining how he had a sniper prepared to shoot you. As well as one destined for Lestrade and another for Mrs Hudson. Unless his people would see me jump. So...I did. '

 

John was horrified, his cheeks were suddenly pale. In the end, it was not coldness, nor boredom, nor even a sense of purposelessness being brought upon him after Moriarty's demise that had made Sherlock abandon him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sherlock had more or less told him how much of a heart he had. And his first reaction in seeing him back from the dead had been to  _ demand  _ him not to contact him again. No wonder the atmosphere Sherlock had confined himself in was so... _ grey.  _ John had rejected his friend because of all the pain he'd suffered. Not thinking for a second how it could have been like for Sherlock to be alone for two years fighting off Moriarty's associates on his behalf. He felt sick at himself for such cruelty.

 

'Hang on. Once you'd jumped, we were out of danger. Why not come back sooner ? Why let me grieve... ?' he asked in a cracked voice.

'John, I...I wanted to make contact...'

'I'm sensing a massively stupid  _ but _ here' John muttered.

'But, if  you believed I was dead then Moriarty's network would, too. I couldn't lose that advantage...' 

'You could have said to pretend... ?' John argued weakly.

'I didn't know if you were being watched, John. I just...' Sherlock sighed. 'I just couldn't risk it.', he said in a tone of regret.

 

A long, awkward silence settled on the men. Neither of them knew how to break it. Or if it needed breaking, for that matter.

The silence stretched, until John said :

'Thank you.'

At Sherlock's questioning look, he developed : 'Thank you for telling me. I needed the truth.'

'Well you did ask for it.'

Another silence threatened to settle in.

'So.  You don't have questions, I assume... ?'

'If I did, I would ask you. You've assumed correctly, John.'

'Not even about... ?'

'No. I can see from the 20 pounds you lost and the heavy bags under your eyes it was a real struggle for you to go on living after my so-called demise. I can also see from the jumper you're wearing and your level of grooming that you and Mary have been dating for at most six months -no one cares that much for the other after the six-months honeymoon period.'

Sherlock marked a short pause and wondered briefly whether to make that last deduction out loud. He thought he might as well, and this would remind John of who Sherlock was -the insensitive, inadequate flatmate he had lived with for two years.

'And from the shifting of your feet, the way you lick your lips every three seconds and the fact you're caressing your ring finger, despite there being no ring on it – you wonder whether it would be considered cheating if you were to kiss me.'

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, as if daring him to point something wrong in his deduction.

John chuckled.

'God, I have missed this. I have missed  _ you _ .' John said after a short pause.

'As for the last part of my deduction, Mary wouldn't consider it cheating. I checked. I would not...'

'Yes ?' asked John, panic rising up inside him.

'I would not feel comfortable doing this. But', he quickly added when he saw John's face turn ashen from mortification 'I would not be adverse to doing this. For your sake.'

'Obviously' said John as relief washed over him.

They grinned at each other and chuckled. Quietness thought it would be appropriate to appear and settle when John's left hand was caressing Sherlock's cheek, appraising the sharpness of his cheekbones, before moving his hand to Sherlock's hair and toyed with it.

'I still can't believe it' John whispered.

Sherlock took hold of John's other hand and intertwined their fingers. He locked eyes with him, and whispered in his ear 'How about now ?' in his suave baritone voice.

He felt John shiver but did not anticipate John would simply close the gap between them by putting his lips to his. A resounding smack broke the relative quietness which was surrounding them. John's lips rested on Sherlock's, allowing them to breathe each other in. John thought he might be pushing his luck, but he nibbled at Sherlock's upper lip nonetheless.

Little did he know this was a strategic point in Sherlock's physical reactions. He instantly became hard -and John felt him.

The kiss which had started chastely enough was now anything but.

Sherlock took hold of John, rubbing himself against him as his hands went from caressing him to exploring his buttocks whilst he angrily devoured John's mouth.

John was extremely turned on by Sherlock's actions, but he was rapidly needing air. He broke the kiss. It  was for a legitimate reason, after all. Although from Sherlock's point of view, breathing was boring. It doused Sherlock's enthusiasm nonetheless. He looked to John, afraid to have done something terribly wrong. John wondered for half a second why Sherlock looked so sad. In the instant he understood he chuckled. 

'I needed to breathe', he explained.

And, as predicted, Sherlock's reaction was nothing if not dismissive.

'Ugh, breathing. Breathing's boring.'

John tried to hide another chuckle. And failed.

'Come here', he said, once again closing the distance between their two bodies.

Surprisingly, Sherlock had turned off his aloof and down to earth self : John was once again kissing him, and he'd be a fool to break it by saying something 'a bit not good'.

Sherlock knew it was just an I-missed-you kiss, and there would be no other one after that. He was fine with that, but vowed to make the most of it and definitely not react like he previously did.

Sherlock could feel John's chafed lips on his, smell the faint aroma of tea that surrounded his entire being and brought a sense of homely reassurance : though no longer living in 221B, John was still there for him. Sherlock's hands had come back to John's hair and from their softness he deduced John must have washed them earlier that day. Same went for his smooth cheeks.

 

While John kissed him, Sherlock couldn't help but feeling John's smile and elation -and responded in kind, neebling at John's bottom lip while his hands had returned caressing his back.

John's reaction to Sherlock's biting tenderly on his bottom lip was very much like Sherlock's. Even if John had learnt through years of practice to tone down his reactions, something in the whole situation made him unable to care at all.

All this -Sherlock' come back from beyond the grave, his relationship with Mary, the 'fear' of being 'caught' by one of Mycroft's staff or, God forbid, by  _ Mycroft himself _ \- gave a sense of urgency to John's kissing.

'I'm so happy you're back, Sherlock...'

'I'm happy you didn't reject me after all, John.'

No words could begin to cover how much these two needed to be in each other's life, a thousand  _ I missed you _ could not begin to convey half of how much they had really missed each other. So they kept on kissing. Neither of them wanted to stop, they feared the other might vanish and this was all just a hallucination.

Eventually they did stop though. More out of breathing convenience than anything else, really. Breathing, though boring,  _ was _ compulsory.

Sherlock was not attracted to sexual relationships, as he had so mildly put it after having delivered his last deduction on John. And John...well, John was not gay.

 

After they separated, John was very adamant Sherlock get some air -he had been cooped up in his bedchamber for far too long.

'Doctor's orders', he added in a tone suggesting that  _ only a fool argues with his doctor. _

'Fine.' Sherlock conceded after an eloquent silence. 'But first tell me. What was all this charade with Mary about ?' Sherlock asked in his most stubborn voice.

John only smiled.

'She thought you'd want to know what kind of person she was. And she wanted to sort of see what you were made of to then proceed in convincing me to coming in her stead. It was not enough I told her all about you, she wanted to see the genuine article.' he joked.

'So she came here, to convince you how much of an emotional wreck I was after my little show at the restaurant ?'

'Pretty much.' John paused and looked at his shoes in shame.

'Well, it worked, didn't it ?' said Sherlock who had seen John preparing to experience remorse. He looked at Sherlock and automatically brightened up.

'Besides, it's not as if your reaction was uncalled for'.

His long fingertips touched John's wrists as he said 'Come. If I recall correctly, my doctor has instructed me to go outside.'

 

And off they went to have a cup of tea before visiting Mrs Hudson.

Mycroft obviously frowned upon their carefree behaviour, as per the old times, but otherwise didn't make a fuss out of it all. He was English, after all, and one of those who were always so carefully tight-lipped. He would not want to admit it, but he was secretly please at seeing his younger brother happy once again. He was proud of himself for having contributed in keeping their reunion possible. Not a day went without John being closely watched, lest he might make an attempt on his life. Unlike his brother, Mycroft Holmes _could_ read emotions.

He even pushed it to come into the flat of 221B whilst John was gone and take his gun with him. John looked particularly depressed, and Mycroft did not want to let anything to chance.

Thankfully, John had pushed the detail out of his mind and not given it any further thought. In that Mary probably had a key role.

Mycroft would then take advantage of the fact that Sherlock and John were out, busy celebrating their reunion, to have most of the video surveillance equipment he had propped the flat with removed. 

And have Sherlock's clothes back to where they should be : in Baker Street.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Renouveaux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2560142) by [Lilythiell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilythiell/pseuds/Lilythiell)




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